Figs! We are having Salonius’s own luck tonight.
“I have taught many girls many tricks, as have you.” Maraud’s voice is different—deeper, louder.
Pierre d’Albret laughs, growing more at ease. “That is one of the things I have always enjoyed about you, Crunard. I never know what will come out of your smart mouth.”
He does not mean smart as a compliment.
I inch my way to the other side of Mogge, trying to peer around her into the main corridor. Pierre d’Albret’s head is tilted at an arrogant angle, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His gaze flicks in my direction and runs the length of my body. It feels like a snake has just slithered down my spine. Four men-at-arms stand just behind him. “Why are you cavorting with mummers? Though it has been a while since I have seen you, I would never have guessed you’d fall that far.”
“It’s been since the battle of Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier, I believe. Although, come to think of it”—Maraud tilts his head and rubs his chin with the back of his sword hand—“perhaps it was even longer than that, because I never did see you on the field there.” The challenge in his voice is unmistakable.
Pierre’s face tightens. “Careful, Crunard,” he says softly. “I would hate to have to teach you manners. Especially in front of the girl.”
In the tense silence that follows, I wonder if I can reach for the night whispers without calling d’Albret’s or his men’s attention to my movements.
“Come, Pierre.” Maraud’s voice is more jocular now. “You know I have no manners. You cannot have forgotten that much about me.”
D’Albret laughs and takes a step closer. “Where have you been? First I heard you had fallen on the battlefield. Rumor was you’d been taken. But here you are, cavorting with mummers and stealing horses.”
Maraud shrugs. “I was taken. Now I am free.”
Pierre glances at me once more. “And looking for more suitable employment, surely. I have work that you will be most interested in.”
“As you can see, I already have a job.”
“I think you’ll find mine to be of personal interest to you.”
I can almost feel Maraud’s hackles rising. “What personal interest is that?”
“It is far too sensitive to speak of in a stable, but we could use a man of your skills.”
“As I said, I already have a job, but I’m honored that you thought of me.”
D’Albret’s eyes darken as he weighs a score of ugly options. “You have always been saddled with that damnable family honor.” I hold my breath, wondering if d’Albret will throw Maraud’s father’s treachery in his face, but he does not.
“As soon as you have finished this job, if you’re still alive, come find me. I promise you, you will be most intrigued. If not for your own sake, then for your brothers’.?”
Maraud grows completely still, the stillness of a predator before it attacks. Surely he cannot think to take on all five men. Even so, I ease my hand down to my belt and unbuckle the leather strap on my sword.
“I will be in touch,” Maraud finally says, his voice tight. “You may rest assured.” The words are no promise, but a threat.
Pierre nods, his reactions as much a part of some silent dance as our mummery. “I look forward to it.” He steps aside, motioning for his men to do so as well. With our way finally clear, Maraud does not move. Saints! He does not know the way out. “To the left,” I murmur.
D’Albret and his men remain in place, silent and threatening, while Maraud leads Mogge toward the back of the stable. By the time we reach the door, my entire body is drenched in nervous sweat. Once we get it closed behind us, I lean against the thick wood, relieved to have something solid between us and d’Albret.
I have not taken but three paces into the cool air when Mogge comes to another abrupt standstill, this time rearing back and pulling sharply on her reins. I leap to the side. As I struggle to steer Gallopine clear of her flailing hooves, Maraud shoves Mogge’s reins into my hand. “Stay here.” He draws his sword and turns, launching himself forward.
Still fumbling with the reins, I crane my neck in time to see Maraud drive his sword into the chest of a man whose own sword is raised high in attack. My heart’s rhythm shifts, racing in time with the dying man’s. He is one of five men blocking our path. Maraud places his foot on the impaled man’s stomach and pulls his sword out in time to run a second attacker through.
My heart lurches like a drunken man, beating more erratically. Gut wounds are a long, ugly way to die.
The third man is upon Maraud, holding his enormous broadsword in a two-handed grip. Distressed by the smell of blood, the horses neigh and pull on the reins. Swearing, I drag them toward the nearest post.
When I look over my shoulder, the third man is down, but a fourth comes at Maraud, swinging a mace.
Maraud grins maniacally. Just as the man swings, he crouches low. While the mace is still mid-arc, Maraud thrusts his sword high, trapping the chain. It whips once, twice around the blade, then Maraud yanks it out of the other man’s hand. As his attacker reaches for his own sword, Maraud draws the second one from his hip and runs him through with it.
My chest feels as if it will explode as it is filled with yet another heartbeat, and my fingers work frantically to secure the reins tightly enough that the panicking horses cannot bolt.
The fifth man is upon him now, this one bearing a battle-ax. Maraud grabs both the blade and the hilt of his sword, using it to block the bone-jarring blow. A blade cannot hold long against such force. I jerk on the reins with all my strength to assure the knot cannot be pulled loose.
A sixth man appears—where are they coming from?—walking purposefully toward Maraud, a sword in each hand. Maraud’s back is to him, but even if he could see, he has his hands full keeping his current opponent from splitting his skull.
I snatch my dagger from my left sleeve. It has been months since I have practiced so I do not let myself think, but simply throw and trust that years of training will hold true.
The dagger whips through the air and catches the sixth man on the side of his head. He ducks and swears, dropping one of his swords as his hand comes up to stanch the gush of blood.
There is a long single moment when everyone—Maraud, his attacker, and the man now missing his ear—is surprised, and immobile with it.
Maraud recovers first. He grabs his hilt with both hands and drives it into the faint hollow just above his attacker’s collarbone.
The man drops his ax and falls to his knees, the movement releasing the sword from its bloody scabbard. Maraud spins around to face the one-eared man and finishes him off with a quick, clean thrust between his ribs.
Surely my heart was never meant to beat with the rhythm of so many dying men. It feels as if an entire herd of galloping horses is trapped inside my chest. With Maraud’s gasping and the thundering heartbeats, it takes a moment to register the sound of clapping behind us.